Fallen Angel
by Union Op 0282
Summary: A new look at the character known only as Angel and her life and dealings before the start of the first season. Can get pretty intense, but well worth the read.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: 1) Big O and all related characters are the copyrighted property of Sunrise Inc.

2) I'd just like to say before hand that I took some liberties with characters and I hope readers will keep an open mind as to the plot of my story. This is my first time posting a story and I hope someone enjoys it. It's a little rough at times and contains sexual references, course language, and some violence in later chapters. That being said, Enjoy.

Killer Angel

by Union Operative 0282

Part 1 

Two Years Prior to 'Big O' Act 1

_The Nightingale_

Inside West Dome #5 the affluent citizens who could afford it spent their evenings at the night club _Nightingale._ Inside the lights were low and the air was rich with expensive perfumes and the soft notes of concert piano. A long haired blond man wearing a tuxedo sat at the piano fingering out silken melodies, to which a voluptuous Negress in a strapless dress of midnight blue sang serene words alongside in a language lost some forty years prior. Yes, to those who could afford it this was the distraction offered to the denizens of Paradigm City to help them forget that which they had already forgotten.

Seated at the bar dressed in a spaghetti-strapped black dress was a woman whose entrance had drawn every man's, married or unmarried, twenty to sixty year old, lecherous eye. Her luxuriously long blond hair was up in a bun, and the hem of her dress went far above the middle of her thighs. While sitting she kept her legs tightly crossed, much to the chagrin of all the male patrons.

She sat crooked on her stool absorbing the ambience with a sultry, casual look upon her face. She was aware of the physiological effect she had on the men in the club. She was always aware of it. It was her greatest agent; the well spring of her power. Absentmindedly she leaned one elbow on the counter top and fingered the edge of her cosmopolitan, occasionally lifting it to her lips and sipping from the pink liquid.

Suddenly the muffled sound of tinkling bells erupted from the woman's black handbag. From it she extracted a medium sized portable phone and as she pulled the antennae out with her teeth and placed it against her ear she heard the monotone drone of her employer's voice: Alex Rosewater.

"Angel, I have just concluded my meeting with Mr. Buchheim. Negotiations have failed and I am afraid that I must now enact 'Genesis 19'. Is that understood?"

The woman's mouth curled up in a sinister smile.

"Of course," was all she said as she flipped phone shut and replaced it in her purse. Then she took out a tube of hot pink lipstick and freshened up her lips. After replacing this she got up from her seat and walked off. Though she hadn't paid for her two cosmopolitans the man behind the bar neglected to hinder her exit. His gaze stayed fixed upon the swaying motion of her ass as she walked toward the exit.

Once outside a young valet in a pristinely pressed red coat and black trousers brought out her pink Corvette convertible. He looked like he had barely reached puberty, with just a hint of peach fuzz and ill concealed acne.

"There you are, ma'am." he said weakly, handing her the keys. She smiled at him and held up a crisp twenty dollar bill and tucked it into his breast pocket.

"Thank you very much, young man." she laughed melodically, and got into her car and sped away. The boy nearly wet himself. After she had driven a half a mile away he finally croaked out a tardy "thank you" to the night air.

Part 2 

The Buchheim Residence

East Dome #3

At about twenty minutes to one in the morning George Buchheim pulled into the driveway of his East Dome #3 home in his beat up station wagon. Though inside the Domes, the neighborhood in which George and his family lived was only a step above the disparity outside the Domes. It was a run down district in a run down outer Dome. Still the Buchheim house was relatively well-kept and cheerful.

The hour was late and his wife, Margaret, was surely worried, but knew he was most likely working on something important. That was the kind of woman she was and George loved her for it all the more. And if that was truly what she thought, then how right she'd be. Something important had happened four hours ago. Word had come down from Paradigm HQ and it's CEO, Alex Rosewater, that George was being relieved of his position as Publisher of _Paradigm Press,_ and demoted with possible termination. It was owing to this that he had been so late returning home. He had made a stop at his city apartment, after many circuitous turns to evade pursuit, to retrieve a particularly subversive piece that he had been working on. It was that very brief that had prompted the punitive move by Paradigm. As long as it was in his hands it was a bargaining chip that could be used to put pressure on Rosewater, especially if he could just finish up his investigation into an enigmatic new angle.

George grabbed his leather bound portfolio from behind the driver's seat and walked into the house. Understandably the lights were out. George turned on the lights in the foyer and the kitchen, and rummaged around in the scantly stocked icebox. He did this not expect to find food, but rather to wake up someone, his wife or one of their daughters, Patricia, their nine-year old, or Evy, their six-year old. It was a time honored ritual, but one that wasn't working tonight. It would appear that for once he would have to seek out his girls.

He thought it would be rude to wake the girls, if they were that tired, so George headed straight to his room to find his oldest girl: his wife. The door was closed and as he opened it and switched on the light he was greeted by a terrible surprise. Inside his room were set four wooden chairs, two on the left side of the room and two on the right. Seated in three of the chairs were his wife and daughters. All three had been stripped down to their undergarments, tied to the chairs, blindfolded, and gagged.

His wife, Margaret, sat by herself on the right. She looked like your average housewife of the '50's, with her hair styled and curled to hug the side of her face with perfectly bowed bangs cascading above her eyes. She was very handsome in face and figure, with a rounded hourglass shape, large breasts supported by an equally large old fashioned brassier, and wide motherly hips sheathed in girdle-brief panties. Her legs were both bound to the legs of her chair with white nylon rope, and her hands bound together behind the back. Her eyes were covered by a white satin scarf folded over several times and tied around under her perfect hair. Her gag was a bright pink rubber ball stuffed into her jaw as far as nature would allow, protruding like a bobbed-for apple, and strapped in place with two thick leather straps. Her face was white with terror.

Patricia and Evy were seated on the left side of the room clad only in their white flowery panties, tied and blindfolded exactly as their mother was. They were gagged, however, with large handkerchiefs stuffed into the mouths and held in place by a length of rope tied like a horse's bit through their mouths. Their faces, at least that which could be seen, were red, probably from crying, silently.

"What on earth!" George cried out, taking a large step into the room. However, after the step the door slammed shut behind him.

"You certainly took your time. . .Mr. Buchheim." a Voice said, sweetly. George turned reflexively and received a second shock.

The Intruder hidden in the corner of the room was the most peculiar he had ever seen. It appeared to be a woman from her figure, in fact he knew it was a woman, though she was masked. She was dressed in a bright pink cat-suit that was tailored exactly to her body's ever curve. It was covered in zippers, seams, and rows of buttons to achieve this feat. The bodice of her suit had four flexible ribs molded into it following her contours, cups jutting out of the suit with under-wires and seams to support and not restrict her ample breasts, and seams following her hip bones down and around her groin and meeting in back in a thong-like action, separating her glutes. The legs continued down in one piece ending in high heeled boots with a row of buttons on the sides for a snug fit on the calves. Likewise, the arms ended in maroon gloves with buttoned forearms. A zipper with a large circular ring ran from the turtlenecked collar, between the breasts, down past the navel, underneath a maroon belt that hung loose on her hips, and down between her legs to her butt. Her mask was an equally tight fitted hood that covered her whole head but for her nostrils, her pouting lips, and her sensuous, sapphire eyes.

She held in her hand a 35 caliber handgun with a silencer screwed in the end, pointed right square at George's head. Despite this, he couldn't keep his eyes from roving over her enormous breasts, her tiny hips, her even tinier waist, or her slightly bulging pudenda.

She walked casually, hips swaying seductively, toward Mr. Buchheim and stopped only when she was up close and personal with the gun's silencer pressed into his chin and her hot breath exhaled from her nostrils vented on his cheek.

"We need to talk, . . . Mr. Buchheim. . . . or should I call you _Georgie-Porgykin._" the woman said slowly and playfully. George's eyes grew wide at the reference. _It can't be!_ He thought. . .

To be continued . . . . .


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **The song lyrics in the _Regency_ scene and some of the dancing are elements borrowed from the Disney film "The Great Mouse Detective". I make no pretense of having thought them up myself. They just work with what I was trying to do.

Part 3 

Four Days Earlier

_4281 Kensington Ave._

George Buchheim sat at his crowded city apartment desk. The desk top was covered with open filing folders piled on top of each other with clandestinely taken photographs, illegally photocopied government documents, and notes handwritten in quick hand poking out, old paper coffee cups with film of stagnant java glazed on the bottom and under the brim, an ashtray piled full of used cigarette butts, and a recently polished off whiskey flask. The man himself looked little better than his work place. He'd been working on an exposé on the various incidences of mismanagement by the ruling regime, the Paradigm Group, and how these incidences had led to the current decline in societal welfare, for nearly a day and a half now, taking a three hour nap at two in the afternoon in the hide-a-bed. He'd slept in his cloths, so his collar and back were messed up and his pants were folded in an unnatural way. His wiry hair was a mess and he'd begun to develop a five o'clock shadow.

Now was the time that he'd thanked providence that he was publisher of _Paradigm Press_. He could disappear from the office for two days and not be missed. As long as he was there on Friday and Sunday to pat the editor, an overzealous 'yes man' named Phil Gessay, on the head for keeping the paper going in the prescribed direction he was free to immerse himself in his pet projects. In this case, the mother of all stories. Something that actually could create change and do something positive for his city. It was this image that fueled his fervor; things of this magnitude made him paranoid and uneasy of getting caught by some Paradigm 'lap dog' atune to his scent. The sooner this was wrapped the better.

In fact, it would have been wrapped had George not stumbled on a new source with a new angle on the investigation. His name was John, though he spelled it '_Jean'_ and the man seemed like a charlatan at first glance, but on a lark, George followed up on two of his claims only to find the to be substantive. It was inexplicable.

As the possessed fingers of the _Paradigm Press_ publisher pounded on the typewriter, his eyes kept glancing up at the clock on the wall. The time was now 11:27 and up until now George's reticence to leave and finish his piece had reigned over his constitution, but now he had only nineteen minutes to meet his source at the _Regency Club._ Quickly he got up and threw on his overcoat and his beat up fedora, making his way down to the curb bellow where he hailed a cab.

George's cab pulled up to the curb in front of the _Regency_ at 11:49 by his watch. He was late, but hopefully his source hadn't been spooked by his tardiness. He quickly paid the cabby his fare and strode toward the club.

The _Regency _was operated on lease in the basement of a privately owned banking firm in a run down building with a chipping green facade and with only a scant sign above the side entrance saying merely '_Regency Club_'. The true draw to the place was the folded plywood street marquis that sat on the sidewalk to the right of the left of the entryway promising "_Regency Club_: _Cold Drinks, Hot Entertainment_" and then a list of the performers appearing that night. Standing to the right of the entrance, partly barring the way, was a barrel chested black man with his arms crosses, eyeing up everything that might turn into trouble. He wore a white collar dress shirt with a black bow tie, a purple vest, and pressed pants, giving an air of respectability, but his blond corn rows, scarred cheek, and gold ring bedecked fingers betrayed him as hired thug muscle.

As George walked by him, the man gave him a good once over before taking a step back and allowing him to move into the cramped stairwell. George was glad of this. If there'd been trouble, he knew that an explanation of his rush would have gotten him a ring encrusted knuckle sandwich to the gut, a hearty laugh, and a push into the gushing gutter. That was Paradigm City.

At the bottom of the stairs George was admitted through a second line of security, this time a bald, 300 pound white behemoth, into the club. The _Regency Club_ had a bar at the front, to the left of where George had entered, and a dozen tables behind a railing with two sets of stairs on either side leading down to a split level floor. There were booths set against the walls and the first level tier with another dozen tables in front of the raised stage area. The place was doing a steady business, and the air was rank with cigarette smoke and stale booze of the lowest grade. Not even the lowest Paradigm "lapdog" would slum in a place like this.

George made his way down to the ground floor and to the booths. The perfect place in the _Regency _for clandestine dealings were the booths; out of the way and close enough to the stage to ensure that neighboring eyes and ears were preoccupied. True to form, his source was in the third booth from the right wall. He was a short man of about five foot two inches with artfully slicked and parted salt and pepper hair and a pencil mustache, shaved with as much care. He was a strange little man, characteristic of a snitch stereotype. George sat down and smiled so as not to draw undue attention. His source wasn't as cautious.

"You h'ar leht." He said, in a strange accent. That was another thing that struck George as odd. Although there were different accents and colloquialisms found in Paradigm City, this man's was unique, even to George, a man familiar with almost all respects of Paradigm society.

"It couldn't be helped. The Military Police had Park Ave. barricaded. Looked like they were busting a radical group." George lied. His lie seemed to unnerve his source even more.

"Anyway, what else do you have for me?" George asked taking out a beat up pencil and notepad. Jean looked uneasy still, but spoke softly.

"H'ar you famili-air wit zee JFK Mahrk insaedent huff lest mounth?" He asked.

"Yes, I am indeed," George replied eagerly, getting his pencil ready.

At this point the music that had been playing when George entered stopped and a woman walked out on stage. This drew both George and Jean's attention. She was a lovely, young blond girl of maybe twenty five years, wearing a long pink skirt that reached near to her ankles, a black corset with pink ribbing, and a pink shawl. On her neck, and George only noticed this later, she wore a pink choker with a thick square shaped wire clasp.

George attempted to get Jean's attention, but his source was transfixed. Oh well, at least he could enjoy the show. Soft piano began to play and the woman began to sing. She had a very timid voice and rang her hands with what seemed to be stage fright. Her thin voice was, however, very melodic.

_Dearest Friends, dear Gentlemen,_

_Listen to my song._

_Life in this city's been hard for you._

_Life has made you strong._

_Let me lift the mood, with my attitude._

Here she shed her naivete and frightened facade and broke out into a more confident voice. Suddenly she bent her knees and playfully pushed her hands into her lap, now adding animation to her song.

_Hey fellas, the time is right_

_Get ready. Tonight's the night._

_Boy's what you're hoping for will come true_

_Let me be good to you._

_You tough guys,_

_You're feelin' all alone._

_You rough guys,_

_the best of you cheaters and bums _

_all are my chums._

_So dream on and drink your beer._

_Get cozy. Your baby's here._

_You won't be misunderstood._

_Let me be good to you. _

Here she went behind the curtain, and didn't reemerge for a few seconds until the height of a very dramatic drum flair. As she reentered, she had shed her shawl and was flanked by two dancers in blue merry-widows.

_Hey fellas, I'll take of all my cloths._

Here she tore off her skirt, revealing her corset to be a black and pink merry-widow and a very, very low cut pink lace thong.

_Hey fellas, there's nothin' I won't do,_

_just for you. _

The song then entered into an instrumental and the girls came together center stage reaching their arms behind each other's backs and placing their hands on what George knew where their neighbor's ass. As the girl to the singer's left did this they both turned to each other and smiled. They then began to Cancan a few times, then turned away from the audience and bent over, waving their thonged derrieres up-and-left and up-and-right to the music.

George broke his trance as the girl began to sing again, flanked by her back up dancers, to attempt to get some work done.

"Jean, snap out of it. What about he JFK Mark incident?"

Jean, however, would not budge. He squinted his beady, little eyes at the stage area and mumbled something incoherent in what might very well have been another language. George returned to the stage to see what Jean was trying to discern, because it wasn't lust behind that look, but confusion.

_Your baby's gonna come through_

_Let me be good to you... _

Out of the corner of his eye, George saw a man get up and charge the stage. Without knowing why, he jumped up and rushed to intercede. The two back up dancers had fled and as the main girl had tried to flee, but the drunken man caught her wrist. He said something slurred to her, but George didn't hear through the adrenalin rush. He wrapped his arm around the man's neck, kicked out the knee the man had his weight on and pulled back, throwing him off the stage and onto the floor. He crashed down on his back and hit his head hard on the floor knocking him out.

When he saw the man drift out of consciousness, he snapped back into reality. He looked down at the prostrate girl and extended a hand to her. As he did the black bouncer came up from behind him and got him in a head lock. Again the words the bouncer spoke were obscured by panic. The girl recognized what was happening, swiftly got to her feet, and plead to the bouncer.

"Terrence, please. He saved me from him." she said pointing at the man on the floor, "Leave him be. He did _your _job."

Terrence backed off and George collapsed at her feet, coughing. This time the girl extended her hand to him, and this time he grasped it, and she lifted him up with a labored sigh, put his arm around her neck, and led him to her dressing room. She sat him down on the stool in front of the mirror where her cosmetics were laid out.

"Are you okay?" she asked concerned. By this time George had regained his color and composure.

"Yes. . . Yes, I'm fine." He breathed a long sigh. The girl began to smile. George did not return it. No doubt Jean had run off as soon as the incident had flared up. Would he make contact again, was the main question. His story was in jeopardy thanks to his indiscretion.

"Thank you so much," the girls said, slipping into a pink robe, "May I ask the name of my Prince Charming?"

"Prince Charming?" George asked, perplexed. The girl laughed.

"My mother used to tell me a fairy tale when I was a little girl. A princess from a far away land fell under a curse by an evil witch who put her into an enchanted sleep. After a hundred years a noble prince came to her rescue and awoke her from her sleep." The girl told the tale with ethereal candor. George was enchanted.

"Well then, your prince's name is George Buchheim. May I ask the name of my damsel in distress?" His damsel laughed.

"You can call me Angel." she said sultrily.

"Is that your real name or your stage name?"

"A nickname. My name is Kelly Blackmore."

"A pleasure to meet you, Kelly Blackmore." George extended a hand to her. She shook it and laughed.

"The pleasure is all mine. After all, you did just save my life."

To be continued . . . . .


	3. Chapter 3

Part 4 

Two hours later

_Speak Easy_

After George had regained his composure, he and Miss Blackmore had retreated to a nearby bar. Kelly had three more sets to do, but had talked the club manager into letting her off for the night, owing to the negligence of his employees. After throwing on a tightfitting black dress with a short hem, the two had flown off. The _Speak Easy_ was your average corner bar frequented by patrons, who by their familiarity, were obviously regulars. As the two walked in everyone took a moment to survey them. The consensus view was that the hardworking 'Joe', George, had picked up a beautiful young prostitute, Miss Blackmore, and was taking her to get liquored up so when he took her home he could be more free in his dealings. A not so difficult assumption as there were two lovely pieces of ass for sale down the block; a blonde haired woman in a dress the color of lust and a curvaceous negress in a black dress and blue overcoat.

The two had gone into the back and sat down across the room from a Jewish man in a ratty suit with headphones in both ears looking deeply immersed in that day's paper. George went up to the bar and got a gin and tonic with a lime twist for Kelly and a whiskey sour for himself. He returned to the table and handed the woman her drink. As he sat down she leaned her face onto her hand and devoted her undivided attention to him. George didn't know what to say to her.

"I didn't realize you were married," She said, gazing at his wedding band as he lifted his drink to his lips.

"Almost ten years." George mused.

"What were you doing in a strip club, if you don't mind my asking?" She asked playfully.

"I'm an investigative journalist. I was meeting a source." George replied, not seeing the harm in truthfulness.

Ah-ha," she laughed, running her index finger around the rim of the glass, absentmindedly "What was he telling you about?"

"I was called away by what happened before he could tell me anything. When I returned he had fled." George related, hoping to stave off further conversation.

"I am sorry. But what kind of story was it you were investigating?"

"The confidential kind," George said harshly and abrupt. Miss Blackmore looked taken aback and said nothing for some time.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell. I haven't had a decent night's sleep this past week and the stress of the past hour has hit me very hard." George said, not having to fake a haggard look.

"It's alright, dear," she said softly.

"What were you doing in a strip club?" asked George.

"Working, obviously." giggled Miss Blackmore.

"I mean why are you working there?"

Miss Blackmore's expression became serious suddenly.

"Well, a girl has to do what she can to survive. You see, I was married once to a Paradigm man, a lower board member, Arthur Blackmore. I was sixteen, almost seventeen, and he was thirty-two. Sounds bad when I say it now, but we were in love. He had to marry me, because I was carrying his child. "

"You're a mother?" George interrupted.

"No, I became ill with a high fever in my fifth month and miscarried. Arthur was crushed. It was after that that he changed and became violent. Three and a half years I was forced to endure his sadism, paying for the crime of killing our child. I was a slave to his madness until an aneurism killed him." Here she laughed, ironically, "You'd think I would be happy, but I was far from it. Paradigm invalided his pension and I was left penniless and, months

later, homeless. I was orphaned and had no marketable skills, so I used what little I had to gain employment at the _Motor Lodge_. I was a terrible dancer and hardly made an tips my first week.

But, strangely again, my luck was never better. I met a kind dancer named Faye who took me under her wing and taught me the tricks of the trade. She even let me stay with her in her apartment while I got back on my feet. She was the dancer tonight on my right."

George flashed back to the dance and the girl to his left.

"Yeah, it appeared that you two were . . ." George paused and waved his hand histrionically, searching for the right term, "very close."

Angel smiled.

"Well, she taught me how to move, look, and act. We slept under the same roof and eventually we fell in love."

George didn't know what to say. He'd suspected as much from what they had done on stage, but to hear it from her was different. As his mind cascaded with a barrage of imagery he did find the idea arousing, yet a part of him cried at the thought that she had all fo a sudden become inaccessible to him. Angel sensed his trepidation and took it upon herself, since he would not break the silence, to explain to him.

"I hope you won't think that I am only a woman's woman. My relationship with Faye is not an uncommon one among dancers. We merely appreciate the body and when it is expressed in the way we use it, our respect can transform in to physical appreciation." Kelly paused and put a hand on George's, covering his wedding band.

"I meant what I said tonight. There _is_ nothing I won't do, just for you . . .my heroic prince." George smiled at this.

"I have an apartment I rent to work out of in the slums of North Kensington . . ." He trailed off letting Miss Blackmore's imagination do the rest.

"What about your wife?" she asked.

"She lives in our East Dome #3 home."

Miss Blackmore grinned mirthfully at George's statement.

"I am yours to command, my darling."she breathed seductively.

George got to his feet with as much debonair flare as he could manage, downed the remainder of his whiskey sour, flipped a could dollars from his billfold onto the table, and extended a hand to Miss Blackmore, who took it and rose up gracefully. The two walked out of the _Speak Easy,_ hand in hand, like two newly declared lovers.

Part 5

One hour and a half later

_4281 Kensington Ave._

The cloths of George and his evening's companion were added to the clutter of the apartment floor. Their occupants lay in the hideaway bed under a scant two sheets with their limbs entwined in loving congress. They had made love like animals for over an hour and their, bodies exhausted, but their passions still smoldering, they let their mouths express their desire.

George lay with his hands pacing slow laps up and down his lover's back and his mouth locked upon hers, sometimes breaking away to explore the soft skin of her neck and supple breasts. Miss Blackmore in turn had her arms around George's neck and her delicate fingers immersed in his wiry hair. Whenever his lips left hers, she would take long gasps of air like a surfaced diver, but laced with moans of ecstacy.

Soon this too gave way to a calmer state of longingful looks. Neither George nor Kelly said a word. Neither knew what to say. Adulterous trysts like this were awkward when the fires of passion had extinguished. Kelly was not so callous as to make any reference to the wife of her bedfellow like so many would, even accidentally, when they are at the particular juncture, so she smiled a genuinely contented smile. George smiled back in kind. He did feel bad to a degree for the betrayal he had wrought, but the pleasure outweighed the guilt. Martha would never find out so why not indulge in a some exotic fare while leading this second life outside the domes. After all, he was a living breathing man reaching the middle of his life and he had a young, curvaceous

blond offering herself to him.

At this point, Miss Blackmore leaned out of bed holding her left arm over her chest to shield her breast from sight and reached into her little black purse and extracted a cigarette and a lighter. She put the cigarette to her lips, lit it, took a deep drag, and exhaled laughing melodically.

"Who'd've thought that being attavked could turn out so well. I seem to have _very_ ironic luck." She said tenderly.

"I would say I'm the lucky one. Not many men my age and like could ensnare such and angel as thee."

"So does that mean that you are going to call me 'Angel'?" she asked.

"I'll call you whatever you wish, my Angel."

"What should I call you?"

"I've never had a nickname before. My wife always calls me _Georgie-Porgykin_ after we've been intimate."

George uttered this reference so casually that Angel found she could be at ease with him.

"Do you love her?" George nodded.

"Do you love me?" George smiled, nodded, and caressed her rosy cheek.

"Well what do you plan to do?" she asked whimsically.

"I've been leading two lives for the past three years: George Buchheim, editor of _Paradigm Press_, and George McGuinness, investigative reporter. I feel that while George Buchheim is happily married with two children, George McGuinness' is cold and empty. Would you consider becoming McGuinness' mistress?"

Angel smiled, closed her eyes, and nodded. George responded by kissing her passionately and moving his hands once more to her back. As he did his hands brushed something tough amid her soft, delicate skin. He had noticed something on her back as she leaned over to retrieve her cigarette, and his interest was once more piqued.

"What are those things on your back, Angel?" George asked. Angel looked like she had resigned herself that she would have to tell him about them.

"It's funny you should ask it like that, 'What are those things on your back, Angel?'. My mother used to call me her angel and tell me I was a beautiful angel, reincarnated on earth.I cherished this memory. I told Arthur about it many times. One night he caught hold of me, and bound me up, then carved these into my shoulder blades, scoring skin, flesh, then bone itself, saying all the while he was cutting off my wings, and mommy's little angel was fallen from grace."

She related this story with much courage, never shedding a single tear, but conveying deep emotional scars, on par with the ones she bore on her back. George was moved greatly by her words.

"You asked earlier about what my story was about that I've been feverishly working on. Well, I'll tell you. I feel that you , who have suffered so much in this city of the damned, would

appreciate it. My story is an exposé on how Paradigm HQ is poisoning this community and deluding us that they are the benevolent protectors of civilization. I have accumulated quite a bit of dirt on Paradigm." George spoke this triumphantly with an air of civic pride. From the look of it, George had his mistress riveted.

"But most intriguing of all is what my source has told me most recently. IT seems that Paradigm isn't the last vestige of human civilization. There are foreign powers at work here in Paradigm. These same Powers are responsible for many atrocities that I had thought to be Paradigm's work, and all of it done to put a bad name on Paradigm. My source was going to tell me something tonight about the incident at JFK-Mark , but was cut of by the disturbance."

Angel had a childlike look of wonder about her.

"So he told you nothign about JFK-Mark?" she asked curiously.

"Nothing except something about it having to do with foreign involvement, no."

"Fascinating," Angel remarked, "I look forward to reading your piece."

"Perhaps I can read it to you in bed when next we meet." Angel laughed.

"Perhaps. But if you will excuse my rudeness, I really should take off to Faye's and fill her in on what happened. I know she was worried before I left."

George felt a pang of jealousy thinking about that other girl putting her hands on his mistress and trying to make love to her as he had without the proper equipment. But he had to keep the beast in check. He could with time win her away from her dyke-ish lover with his charm and passion, and have soul occupancy. Worrying was a waste of energy.

Instead George focused his attention on the nude woman exiting his bed and fishing through the sea of clothing, bent over, fully displayed. It was very arousing. What really caught his attention was when she picked up her low cut pink thong and put her legs through. He watched as she lifted them up and that thin, thin piece of cloths in back wedged between her perfect buttocks, and her fingers tucked the straps above her hip bones. He thought about how absurd his wife would look in a thong and how laughable the situation would be if she ever attempted to. Whereas this woman before him looked as though no other form of undergarment could be worn by her. Something in his soul burst at that moment.

Angel continued to search for cloths,.but was interrupted by George.

"So when you said that you'd do anything, just for me, you meant _anything?_" Angel looked at him, perplexed.

"Yes," she said with confusion.

"Anything?" he asked again, getting out of bed completely naked.

"Sure,' she affirmed again, still unaware of his intentions.

George took this for what it was worth and pushed Angel's back down wit his left hand until she was bent over the bed with her hands resting palms down on the mattress, reached his right hand down to her ass and plucked out the floss from betwixt her cheeks, thrust himself into her tight anus, and then began to lustfully as fuck her. Angel let out a gasp of shock, but let him work her until he was finished, letting out questionable gasps of pleasure. After he had finished and withdrawn from her ravaged rear, she finished dressing and left with a strangely pleasured grin, ambiguous of it's sincerity.

"See you soon, _Georgie. . ."_ she said, under her breath.

To be continued . . . . .


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** This is the chapter that gives this story the Mature rating. It is thus rated for violent and some might say perverse content, and some occasional swearing. I hope that my readers who have made it this far will indulge me in accepting the context with which I have employed each of these elements. I hope you enjoy.

Part 6 

Buchheim Residence

_East Dome #3_

Now

"Angel?" George asked, astonished, looking the masked assassin straight in her blue eyes. The eyes were ice. No kindness lay there, and yet no malice either, just purposeful indifference. Though her face was obscured by pink rubber, George could tell that she was a different woman than she was four days prior.

Angel said nothing in response to his query, but stepped back four paces, again leveling the gun at his head.

"Raise your hands very slowly and place them on your head." Angel commanded in a soft tone carrying a slightly stern edge. George complied hesitantly, still struggling with the unreality of the current situation.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked on the verge of hysterics. Again Angel said nothing, but reapproached from behind and pushed the silencer of her gun into the back of George's head

so he knew it was there, then pulled on his suit jacket's collar, wrenching his arms downward and ripping a few seams. The coat however came off and was immediately tossed into the corner. Angel's right hand automatically shot to George's throat and her crooked middle and index fingers caught his tie, yanked down, loosened it, tore it off his head, and tossed it beside the jacket. Next her nimble gloved fingers worked the buttons of his shirt with astounding speed and the shirt flew open only to be torn off and tossed likewise in the corner.

Angel resumed her close proximity to George, pressing her body close up behind him, as if spooning whilst standing and repositioned her pistol to his temple. Her hand grasped his left pectoral under which she could feel his heart racing and followed his chest downward until she came to his waist where she unbuttoned his pants.

"You should be well aware of why I am doing this, " she said sweetly, now with a hint of pleasure in her voice, "Surely you realize that eventually Paradigm would catch up to you. On your stomach, ankles apart, hands on your head."

George complied again with his captor's instructions, the cleverness of Paradigm stinging his every thought. They had caught him with his pants down, and he felt he should be shot for his ignorance and stupidity. He very well was going to be.

"Listen Angel, do whatever you want to me, but spare my wife and daughters, please. I am begging you by all you hold dear. They have nothing to do with this. Leave them out of it." George was pleading red faced.

"I am afraid that I can't do that. They have everything to do with this, because you brought them into it. If you had only not written the story or had complied with Mr. Rosewater's generous severance agreement you'd be unemployed, but your family would be safe. Obstinance only leads to more trouble." As Angel lectured she pulled off George's shoes and then his trousers. George was left in his black dress socks, his blue and white stripped shorts, and a white wife-beater.

"Get up and sit down." Angel said, motioning with her gun to the empty chair beside his wife. He got up and did as he was told. As he sat down his arms were wrenched together behind the chair's back and bound with what he knew from prior observation to be white nylon rope. His legs were bound to the chair's legs next. After this Angel reappeared in front of George with a many tentacled pink rubber ball in her hand.

"Open up," she said pointing the gun between his eyes.

"Angel, please don't do this. Please I am beg . . ." Before he could finish his sentence she had shoved the ball into his opened jaw as hard as she could to lodge it, and set about hooking up the straps before he could muster the strength to spit it out.

George waited for her to blindfold him as she had for the rest of his family. She however did not do this, but instead walked over to the chair Martha was sitting in at his right, her platform heels clicking as she strode, and patted Martha gingerly on the cheek with her warm gloved hand, and removed her blindfold.

Angel then turned and walked across the room to the children's side, her well shaped but moving sultrily side to side with each emphasized stride. George's eyes, in spite of his distress, followed that ass that he had violated with preditorial acuteness. Somehow he still hoped that by the oddness of fate this was a twisted joke and he could once again enjoy the pleasures of four days ago. But these thoughts were cut short by the realization that the pains he felt throughout his body were real, his story was real, the strife of his family was real, and they would suffer for his weakness.

As Angel crossed the room she went to stand between the two girls' chairs and knelt down facing Patricia. She deftly untied the girl's blindfold , revealing the terrified, tear swollen eyes of the nine year old. Tricia's eyes immediately turned to the masked woman's and she looked mutely into the blue eyes for a few moments. Angle let her and did nothing to break eye contact. Unlike her father, Tricia saw kindness in the woman's eyes, though it did nothing to stop fresh tears from pooling down her face. Angel placed a hand on the girl's cheek and wiped the tears from both eyes with her insulted thumb. She bent over to Tricia's ear and whispered something in it. Whatever it was, it was involved, taking three minutes to relate. Also it calmed the terror from Tricia's face and left her upset but not scared.

Angel then turned to little Evy and whispered something in her ear, probably the same message, as the effect upon her was the same as her sister. Angel, however, left her blindfolded. Angel stroked Evy's arm reassuringly and then got up and walked over to the corner of the room in which she had laid in wait for George's return home. She retrieved a many compartmented black bag, and carried it to the right of where Patricia was seated.

As Angel approached the girl's again with the gun in hand, Mrs. Buchheim began to fight her restraints and become red in the face from screaming mutely through her pink gag. Angel heard this and turned to her.

"I made a promise, Mrs. Buchheim," she said holding up the gun, then clicking on the safety and tucking it into her loose red belt haphazardly, "and I am a woman of my word."

As George looked at her and his wife, confused, Angel scoffed at her foolishness.

"Before you arrived, Mr. Buchheim, when I was securing your wife, I made a promise not to shoot your daughters; a promise I will keep."

Whatever her plan, it was almost ready, but before she would commence, Angel went to each girl, bent over in front of them with her back to their parents, shielded from their view, and kissed each on the forehead, and Patricia on her salty eyes. Then there was nothign left to do, but proceed.

Angel knelt down over her bag and unzipped the second main compartment of the bag and rustled around with the contents. Three pairs of eyes were on her as she did so. She extracted what George recognized as a Military Police Riot Squad issue gas mask, painted pink, from the bag and fitted it onto her face and tightened the straps. The gas mask covered all of Angel's already masked face. Most of the mask was a clear plastic visor that revealed a mouth piece that encircled Angel's nose and mouth. There was a metal vent on the outside in front of where her mouth would be and directly between the two empty regulator ports. Next Angel removed a drab green cannister from the bag, unscrewed the top making a hissing noise as the hermetically sealed filter was opened, and screwed it into her left port, then repeated the process, placing one in the right port. As this last step was finished her breathing became audible as she sucked air through the filters and exhaled through them.

"You two can look away if you wish," she warned them. Her voice issued loudly from the metal vent, now revealed as a speaker, but muffled sounding.

Lastly from the bag, Angel took what looked like an odd pistol made from winding bent pipes. On top of the gun was a light blue liquid in an upside down glass phial and directly underneath that Angel fastened in a CO2 propellant cartridge.

Thusly armed, Angel strode up to Patricia and grasped her face firmly with her left hand and placed the muzzle of the gun an inch from the little girl's nose. As she depressed the trigger a misty, vaguely opaque whit e smoke wafted around the two's faces. Almost instantly little Tricia began to shake violently in her chair and scream, though barely audible because of the gag.

Angel held tight to the girl's face, kept her eys locked upon the girl's, and kept pumping the gas in her face for almost a minute. Then she released her to feel the gas's effects. Patricia fell limp, twitching here and there. Her parents were aghast. Neither could watch as Angel repeated the process on their youngest. They closed their eyes and counted to one hundred, and even then debated as to whether to open their eyes. As they both did, at different times, they saw Evy seated like her sister, unblindfolded, with her eyes rolled up into her head, with a blank expression on her face, twitching occasionally.

Looking on, both parents expressed their horror in different ways. George's eyes stared in fixed disbelief. This wasn't happening, was all he thought. His wife's devastation was quite apparent. She erupted into tears and a fit of fidgeting at her bonds. Angel disregarded this for the time and gingerly replaced the gas gun into the bag with the utmost care. Then after waving her arms about to disperse the deadly fog, she removed her gas mask and replaced it in the bag as well. As Angel got up she looked at her two remaining victims to assess the affect of her work.

"You needn't worry," she said, addressing Mrs. Buchheim, the most shaken looking, "They didn't suffer for more than twelve seconds. The nerve gas will have killed their consciousness almost immediately, as it is even now working its way through their peripheral nervous system. Also," she said, kindly, "You must realize that you are going to be killed next and are only seconds away from being reunited on the other side."

Casually, Angel reached down, grabbed her gun, raised it up not too fast, took careful aim, and fired a round off. _Tweerp._ It hit Mrs. Buchheim between the eyes, and knocked the chair onto it's back with a spray of red. Angel took two paces forward and did a double tap to Martha's chest. _Tweerp. Tweerp._

George could not stand it any longer. Small blessing that he couldn't turn his head at an angle to see what Angel had done to his wife, even if he'd wanted to, but the pooling of her blood on the floor did reach his eyes, and he had to fight back a wave a nausea. The blood had made it real somehow. It had jarred him out of his bubble of incongruity. Tears reached his eyes and he wept silently.

Angel undid his gag and tore it out of his mouth.

"Why? Why did you do that!" George yelled, his voice breaking two octaves.

"I told you before." Angel said with her arms crossed, in a condescending almost parental tone, "This is punishment. To think that you, a mere mortal, could titans such as us and slay us, let alone exit unscathed was very arrogant of you. Whether or not you worked away from your family and adopted a new persona is inconsequential; they are still an exploitable liability. Fighting an institution is a 'no man's' game. You must hold nothing dear but your cause, and have no home or place of respite. So you forfeit humanity and become nothing but a specter haunting the many levels of your target. Your family is, or should I say, _was_ the anchor that held you back from achieving your aim. Now whether you live or die is arbitrary. I have you."

George was disgusted by the callousness of her words. What's more the truthfulness of them stung deeper. He had been a fool. He had made the number one mistake of war: underestimate your foe and you leave yourself open for a knife in the dark. He most certainly had been stabbed as deep as a man of his station could be. He felt helpless now and powerless to rectify the mistakes he had made. He felt foolish seated in his underwear, tied up and held prisoner by a masked woman who's tight pink costume, though showing no skin, aroused him when he should be immune to it. His family was dead. This was real.

"But they were a harmless woman and children . . ." George said morosely, devoid now of the energy to be angry at her entirely.

"I am a soldier pledged to my cause and my land. In defense of them I would murder as many men, women, and children as it would take. Secondly, I am a woman and feel no guilt taking another woman's life. Unlike a man, the playing field is even."

"Is that what Alex Rosewater has led you to believe, that this rotten City and the self serving ideals upon which the Paradigm Group founded it are worth innocent lives?" George asked pointedly. Angel laughed, placing her hands on her sleek pink hips.

"You silly man. While yes, I am here on the orders of Alex Rosewater, he's not, nor is his company, where my loyalties lie. Paradigm wasn't the only culprit implicated in your piece."

George's eyes grew wide. This woman was full of surprises.

"You mean, you . . . you're . . ."

"A foreigner? Yes. I am Union Operative 340 of the Foreign Union. Had you complied with Rosewater's severance terms tonight, I still would have come and paid your family a visit, but I wouldn't have killed them. I would have tied them up and lined them up on their knees with a gun to one of their heads, demanding the document and departed into the night, leaving you to quickly reproduce it before Rosewater _did_ send me to kill you. You wouldn't have ever known it was me and we could have carried on our little affair. I will admit you were amusing, and you still might have been of some use to the Union. As it is, I will keep that document and say that you destroyed it before I could procure it. It will then be used by the Union in our campaign against Paradigm. However, with me having said all this, I will have to kill you now."

"Any last requests before you join your family?" she asked mock sweetly, "Yes, I know hat you want. Even while I was gassing your daughters you couldn't take your eyes off me. I tore everything that is dear to you away, and still you want me," she ran her crimson gloved hands over her sheathed breasts, stomach, hips, and ass. Her left hand then went to her neck and found the large, circular zipper and pulled it down slowly, revealing the creamy flesh of her neck, then the valley between her breasts, her trim stomach, and finally the freshly shaved, pink mons. George could feel himself swelling beneath his shorts.

Angel walked up to him, moving her body as she had all night in such a way as to arouse him. Her hips moved side to side and her breast heaved in and out. She swung herself onto his rigid lap and wrapped her legs around his waist. Reaching her hand between her legs she fumbled with the slit of George's shorts and released the beast from its cage, and roughly lowered herself onto him, her body sheathing his weapon. Angel then leaned her masked face down to his and put her soft, glossy lips to his and kissed him s roughly as she was grinding against his lap. His mouth was pried apart by her tongue, which darted around inside like a landed fish. One thing that could be said for her technique was that she, although rough, could tease a man's climax, fucking him for close on twelve minutes.

After a long hard fucking, Angel felt George spurt deep inside her. She got up, took a few teasing steps backwards, and zipped her suit back up. She pulled out her gun and cocked the action. George could feel mortality nipping at his every particle, and though he wished it, he still felt ties to the living.

"Why didn't you take off your mask?" he asked weakly.

"I am an assassin, a faceless killer who ends life. To be a true assassin you must appear inhuman to your victims. It is for that reason that I unblindfolded each of you as I killed you. I enjoy looking into the eyes of my victims as I take their lives from them." This last thought she concluded with a chuckle.

"Your time is up, _Georgie-Porgykin_." angel said, holding up the gun, "I'll let you choose how I do it. Through the eye ( she pressed the silencer into his right eye), in the mouth ( she shoved it into his mouth), to the side of the head ( she pressed it to his temple), or throughthe heart?"

George nodded. Angel smiled at the symbolism of his choice.

"It won't be the first time, will it, my love?" she asked, placing the gun a little to the right of his sternum and pulled the trigger. _Tweerp._ The bullet was off, as Angel had planed, nicking the aortic arch and giving him a few seconds of life to toy with.

"I told your wife about us, _Georgie_. She knew before she died." Angel teased: one last insult. George had no time to react this time, having passed out shortly after hearing this from the massive blood loss he had incurred with each heart beat. Angel shot him again between the eyes with cold accuracy to end it.

With the Buchheims dead Angel proceeded to her primary objective, the item designated in her briefing of the 'Genesis 19 Contingency' as the 'Buchheim Document'. Owing to her stealth, she didn't have to look for it. George had dropped it as he had entered the room. Angel picked it up and extracted the document form the portfolio, replacing it with another doctored document given her by the Union Propaganda Division. The false document had been treated with kerosene, so when Angel lit it, the paper became engulfed in flames. She dropped it to the ground and stamped out the flames with her pink high heeled boot after the fire had obscured enough of the text to hide the bogusness of the words. She picked up the charred fragments and placed them in the portfolio case, which she loaded up into the black bag.

Finally she took a cannister of petrol and doused each of the bodies and the furniture, then poured a trail out to the front door. At the door she took out her field radio sized portable phone. Flipping down the receiver and pulling out the antenna with her teeth, she dialed her employer.

"'Operation Genesis 19' accomplished., Mr. Rosewater. The reporter and his family have been terminated . . . . . . . Yes, he knew the full genius of your ingenuity before he was eliminated . . . . . . . . I understand, sir, but I am afraid to report that in one way he was too clever for us. The 'Buchheim Document' was treated with flammable agents. He set fire to it. I did my best to salvage what was left. Buchheim suffered for his impudence . . . . . . Thank you sir for your understanding. I shall report for debriefing within the hour."

Angel hung up and dialed another number.

"Agent 12, this is Agent 340. The operation has been completed. Item designation "Buchheim Document" is safely in Union hands . . . . . . . Yes, Alex Rosewater appears satisfied with the subterfuge I have employed, but further observations will be taken at my debriefing . . . .

Yes. I shall report to you with the document tomorrow evening . . . . . . . No, it does not appear that Agent 135 disclosed the significance of the JFK-Mark operation to Buchheim, nor does it appear that he informed anyone else of the information he did procure about us . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Understood. So Agent 271 has dispatched Agent 135. I am indeed satisfied. Thank you Agent 12. Viva la Union."

Angel hung up the phone and pushed in the antenna. Quickly she loaded up the equipment into the trunk of her little pink convertible. Angel took a medium sized rock from the Buchheim's landscaping, wrapped a oily rag around it, lit it and skillfully tossed it right through the front door. The house immediately erupted into an inferno. Angel stood erect in front of the house's walkway, back straight, heels together, and blew a kiss to those burning inside. Then turned with a hop in her gait and entered her car and departed the scene.

_**Fin**_

Endnote: This concludes the story as I had conceived it when I started. I hope you liked it. If you did please give me some feed back on what you did like and what you may not have liked. If I get enough reviews I will post two bonus chapters I thought up while writing this. If not, just email me and I'll try and get those chapters to you by email. But please do let me know how you liked this.


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